His eyes moved over the sea of leather jackets and motorcycles surrounding him.
He cleared his throat.
“I’m... I’m looking for Jack Sullivan.”
“That’s me,” Jack said.
He stepped forward easily.
“What’s the trouble, Deputy?”
The deputy glanced around the property.
“We got a report.”
Jack waited.
“The caller says you have an armed mob trespassing out here and making threats.”
The mood changed instantly.
The deputy checked his notes.
“Says there was also a hostage situation earlier today involving a juvenile.”
The lot went cold.
Ethan felt the words hit his stomach before his mind fully understood them.
That was the play.
Caldwell’s men had not gone back simply to recover from what happened.
They had called law enforcement first.
They had gotten ahead of the story.
They had made Jack the criminal and themselves the victims.
And now they had put a sheriff’s deputy between Jack and two hundred witnesses.
But the word that made Ethan’s blood turn cold was juvenile.
“Deputy,” Jack said carefully, “there’s no hostage.”
He motioned toward the riders.
“There’s no mob.”
“These are my friends.”
“They came for a barbecue.”
Jack nodded toward the grill.
“You’re welcome to a burger.”
The deputy looked down at his notepad.
“The caller named a victim.”
Jack went still.
“Said a young man, blond, around twenty, was being held here against his will.”
The deputy checked his notes again.
“Said his name was Ethan Walker.”
Every head in the lot turned.
Ethan understood everything in one sickening rush.
Caldwell had finally figured out the weakness in the situation.
The kid with the box was no longer just a witness.
The kid with the box was the weapon they intended to turn around.
Because a homeless twenty-year-old had no address.
No family.
No obvious person to vouch for him.
Someone like Ethan could be turned into anything if the right people told the story first.
A runaway.
A victim.
A vulnerable kid being manipulated by an older ex-convict.
A reason to shut down the garage.
A reason to remove Ethan from the property.
A reason to separate him from the box.
The deputy looked toward him.
“Are you Ethan Walker?”
Ethan’s mouth went dry.
Jack began moving forward.
Padre did too.
Around them, riders started rising.
Ethan lifted one hand.
Everyone stopped.
The same way he had stopped Jack when he was lying on the garage floor.
“I’m Ethan Walker,” he said.
The deputy looked directly at him.
“Son, are you being held here against your will?”
Ethan thought of everything.
Nine doors closed in his face.
His stepfather taking checks in his name for seven years.
The cot.
The broom.
Jack teaching him a carburetor.
The box.
The brick.
The threats.
The men who had shoved him onto the concrete.
He looked the deputy directly in the eye.
Then he reached into the box.
He pulled out his phone.
“No, sir.”
The deputy stared at the device.
“And I can prove it.”
Ethan raised the phone.
“Every single second of it.”
He stepped closer.
“Starting with the part where the men who called you are the same men who threw me onto that floor four hours ago.”